


Lock Me Up (With a Kiss)

by aionwatha



Category: Hunter X Hunter
Genre: Aged up characters, Light-Hearted Fun, M/M, accidental bc i didn’t know the show before i came up with this story, accidental white collar au, also i used lucilfer instead of my usual lucifer for obvs reasons, and kuruta is now kurapica’s family name, changed the names a bit to fit with a modern setting, even though senritsu just means melody in japanese, genderfluid Kurapica, still going with hxh1999 so kurapica has blue eyes, thus senritsu’s name is melody senritsu, tropes to the max
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-27
Updated: 2019-06-27
Packaged: 2020-05-20 22:53:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19386163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aionwatha/pseuds/aionwatha
Summary: When a famous Renoir painting goes missing from the Art Institute, the last person FBI agent Kurapica Kuruta expects to work with is the alleged art thief, forger, and con artist Kuroro Lucilfer, yet work with him he must, if he’s to find out what happened to the priceless work of art.





	1. Two Sisters

**Author's Note:**

> _as always, let's hear a huge cheer for kinsdura and lynffles for providing first beta and helping me make sense of this mess, and i could never emphasize enough how amazing lea summers, my final beta, is!!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _wrote this entire thing listening to[the cab - lock me up](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5XF_XwFixAg) on repeat, from which i adapted the title of this fic. go look at the clip and tell me if it's not kurokura to the max (albeit het)._

* * *

**Chapter 1**

**Two Sisters**

Getting a call at eight in the morning on Saturday never ever boded well for Kurapica’s weekend, but when he reached for his work cell phone, he was surprised to find it wasn’t the one vibrating insistently. He didn’t think that work would call his personal line, but he was still slightly apprehensive as he got up and walked away from his breakfast. He made his way towards the coffee table across the open room, in the lounge area, where his phone was charging. He picked up the device and checked the caller ID before sweeping his thumb to answer, disengaging the charger with a flick of his wrist. 

“Melody. Everything all right?”

“Good morning, Kurapica,” his friend said, her voice sweet and gentle as ever. “I trust I’m not waking you?”

“No, I was just having breakfast,” Kurapica assured her. And because she was not exactly in the habit of calling him this early, especially on his day off, unless they had plans together, he asked again, “Is everything okay?”

“Maybe, I’m not sure,” she said, then marked a slight hesitation. “Something peculiar happened this morning.”

“Peculiar,” he echoed softly, not quite making it a question. He turned to his front windows, watching as people ambled by. He lived on a quiet street, but it was a beautiful Saturday, and clearly, some of his neighbours had decided that a morning walk was the best way to start the day.

“Yes. Seeing how you just got that position at the Bureau, I thought perhaps you could help me determine if something untoward might have happened to one of the pieces I’m responsible for.”

Kurapica raked a hand through his hair—it was far too long for the liking of most of his coworkers, but Kurapica had never been one to stick to conformity, and if SSA Netero could have a long ponytail, he didn’t see why he should cut his. “You want me to investigate a theft?” 

“Well,” Melody trailed off for a moment, then cleared her throat. Across the street, a black and white cat was sniffing at a fire hydrant. It turned away and climbed the stairs up to another terrace house. “I’m not sure what happened exactly, but it is a little suspicious. I’ve told you we were scanning our permanent collection?”

Kurapica abandoned the street gazing so he could return to his breakfast, as it seemed like Melody might be on the line for a while. “The high resolution scans?”

“Yes, that. The one our insurance company requested so they could compare recovered paintings after a possible theft.”

“You’ve mentioned it before,” Kurapica said, sliding back into the chair he’d vacated. He jammed the phone between his shoulder and ear and poured himself a cup of coffee. “What happened?”

“Last night, we were going through our Renoir paintings. Everything went fine, but this morning, we noticed that our scans disappeared.”

Kurapica paused, confused. He set the coffee pot down and moved his hand back to his phone so he could straighten up. “Your _scans?_ Not the actual artwork?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out.” At the other end of the line, Melody sighed. “We think one of the transport crates may have been tampered with. _Two Sisters_. It could be nothing….”

“...Or it could be something,” Kurapica finished for her. “I’m on my way.”

“Wait!”

Kurapica had already been moving his phone away, but she knew him well and had said it loud enough that he heard and put the device back to his ear. “What?”

“I’d like you to bring… an acquaintance of mine. If the painting’s been tampered with, he’ll know.”

There was an odd edge to her voice that got Kurapica’s attention right away. “Who?”

“Listen, he’s not the most—” Whatever she had been about to say, she decided against it. “You probably will dislike him on principle, but he’s really the best person to help.”

Kurapica sighed and pulled his phone away from his mouth so he could drain his cup. “Who is it?” he asked again into the phone as he brought the mug to the sink to rinse out. 

“Have you heard of Genei Gallery?”

Kurapica dropped the mug and it clattered into the sink, making him curse; or perhaps that was because he suddenly understood Melody’s reticence with telling him who she had in mind. 

“Kuroro Lucilfer. You want me to bring _Kuroro Lucilfer_ to the Art Institute.”

“He’ll know right away if something’s off with the painting. He’s studied all of our Renoirs for years.”

“I bet. Listen, Melody, there’s a file as thick as a concrete block on the guy at the Bureau. He’s not someone you should ever trust, especially not with something this sensitive.”

“He’s never been arrested,” she pointed out gently.

“That’s because the guy is too slippery to get caught. Melody, the guy is dirty, real dirty.”

“He was never arrested for anything,” she said again, sounding slightly reproachful this time—as reproachful as Melody ever got, “the least we can do is give him the benefit of the doubt.”

“I’m not in the business of giving anyone the benefit of the doubt.”

“I know.” She sighed softly again. “Listen, I don’t have his number, or I’d call him and ask him to come in. I really want his help on this one. He’ll know why. Could you stop by his gallery and ask him on my behalf?”

Kurapica closed his eyes, taking in a deep breath, then slowly letting it go, one hand on his hip, the other holding his phone. Another sigh, and he opened his eyes and straightened his mug in the sink, then turned on the faucet and rinsed it out. When he cut the water off, he still felt put upon, but he knew his answer.

Melody, proving again how well she knew him, hadn’t said a word and was simply waiting on his decision. 

“All right,” Kurapica finally relented, “I’ll detour by the gallery and fetch Lucilfer for you.”

“Thank you,” Melody said, “I’ll see you shortly then.”

“Be there soon,” Kurapica said, then hung up. He set his phone down on the counter and leaned forward with his hands on either side of the sink. He took a moment to let himself feel annoyed with his friend for forcing him to spend time with a rumoured criminal, then he bottled it up and shoved it down deep. 

 

* * *

 

Genei Galleries was very well situated in Pilsen, on the ground floor of an old, elegant building, the first two floors of which were carved in white stone, while the upper floors were exposed red bricks. The door was to the right, under an imposing arch, while the rest of the front wall had large windows with a few key pieces facing towards the street to tempt some would be buyers into coming inside. Opening the door, Kurapica was greeted with the smell of old wood and lemon oil. 

The place looked more like an antique shop than a modern showroom. While most galleries Kurapica had gone to—usually for work and rarely ever to enjoy himself—had favoured minimalist space designs with white walls, letting the artworks speak for themselves, Genei gallery had warm hardwood floors and beautiful mouldings along the walls near both the floor and ceiling. It was deeper than it was wide, with sculptures along the centre while paintings lined the walls.

There were no bells above the door, but Kurapica soon heard the click of thin heels walking towards him. He turned towards the sound and caught sight of a tall woman in an elegant suit coming his way.

“Can I help you?” she asked him as she reached him, then looked him up and down. Kurapica was all too aware of his faded jeans and sneakers, of the old jacket he’d thrown on against the spring breeze. He knew immediately she’d dismiss him as unimportant. Even had he worn his work clothes, the off-the-rack suit would just tell those in the know that he definitely did not have the kind of cash to throw on original art. He adjusted his jacket and put on his most professional mask.

“Yes, I was hoping to meet with Mr. Lucilfer this morning.”

The woman gave him another once over. “Do you have an appointment?”

“No, but I was hoping he’d meet with me regardless.” Kurapica hated flashing his badge especially as he wasn’t here in any formal capacity, but he didn’t think he’d ever get anywhere without doing so now, so he took it out and held it up to the woman’s inspection. “Agent Kurapica Kuruta with the White Collar Unit.”

The woman’s expression went from vaguely dismissive to frosty in an instant. “May I ask why you are here?” she asked, the words polite but her tone so cold it was a miracle he didn’t immediately go into hypothermia.

“I might need Mr. Lucilfer’s expertise on a case I’m working on right now,” he quickly explained, lest she told Lucilfer to run, somehow. “His insight would be most welcome. I understand that he is a busy man, what with the gallery and his other engagements—” The woman didn’t miss what he was alluding to and let out a soft huff. “—and I would be most thankful if he agreed to give me a few minutes of his time.”

The woman turned away and glanced towards the back of the store, then returned her attention to him. “I’ll see if he’s willing to make time for you,” she said. “Wait here.”

She walked with surprising speed on her tall heels and rounded an ornate counter, where she picked up a phone. She stood for a moment, just listening into the receiver, before she jerked and spoke. “Boss, there’s someone here to see you,” she said. She glanced at Kurapica. “I don’t know, some pretty boy FBI agent. Said you could help him with a case.” She listened for a moment, then glanced at the blond again, who tried not to show his displeasure at her description. “All right,” she said after a few seconds, then hung up. 

She stared at the phone for a moment, then shook her head slowly, before turning her attention back to the blond. She slowly walked back out from behind the counter and waved at Kurapica to follow her. “I’ll take you to his studio.”

She led him through a door at the back and down a narrow corridor that was much less lavish than the front shop and display area. The floors were the same hardwood as the gallery and well polished, but the walls were white and unadorned. The hall followed the back wall of the shop and from the length of it, Kurapica guessed that they were going into what would look from the street to be the building next to the gallery, though either it had always been one single building, or someone had connected them at some point. The woman didn’t try to converse with Kurapica, and the blond was quite happy with the arrangement.

Lucilfer’s studio was at the end of the hallway, and the woman with him knocked twice, then opened the door and waved Kurapica in. The blond inclined his head to her in thanks and stepped inside the large room, his eyes sliding over the area from left to right through pure habit. The wide room was mostly empty, with a few easels near a corner and paintings in various stages of completion leaning against the walls. There was a counter along the wall to his right that went a few metres into the room and stopped about halfway to the far wall.

Lucilfer was at a sink towards the far end of the counter, washing his hands. He was a polished, handsome man, probably in his twenties, though his age was hard to tell, with dark hair and eyes, not much taller than Kurapica. Although he seemed to have been painting, he was wearing neatly tailored slacks with a dark button-down, the sleeves of which were rolled up to his elbows. As soon as Kurapica’s eyes landed on him, the woman closed the door behind him, and he soon heard her heels tap the hardwood floors as she walked away. Kurapica glanced at the door, then returned his attention to the man at the sink.

Lucilfer cut the water and grabbed a towel before turning towards the agent as he wiped his hands dry. He gave Kurapica the same kind of once-over that the woman had given him, though he lingered longer on Kurapica’s face. 

“You look a bit young to be FBI,” he commented. 

“You look a bit young for a world-class forger and art thief,” Kurapica sent back. 

“ _Alleged_ world-class forger and art thief,” the man said with a charming grin. He chucked the towel back next to the sink. “There’s a reason I don’t even have a mugshot.”

“You’re too oily to get caught in one, maybe?” Kurapica couldn’t help suggesting. “You’d slide right through the camera lens.”

Lucilfer’s smile widened, as if he was enjoying the accusation. “You know who I am, but I don’t know who you are. I.D.”

It sounded more like a command than a request, but though he bristled a little, Kurapica obligingly took out his badge again, and the man came closer and bent a little lower to examine it. Then he nodded and stepped back. 

“So, Agent Kurapica Kuruta,” he said, and he had to be the first person to ever get the proper pronunciation of his name without mangling it on the first try, “what can I do for you? You can save yourself the _Someday I’ll See You Behind Bars_ speech; I can probably recite every variation of it.”

“I’m not here for your _alleged_ activities, Lucilfer,” Kurapica said, waving his hand while putting his I.D. folder away with the other. He took in a deep breath and squared his shoulders. “I may—” Kurapica hesitated a moment, as his better senses tried to stop him from actually going through with this. He gritted his teeth and forced himself to say it. “I may need your expertise.”

“My expertise covers a wide range of subjects,” Lucilfer pointed out, cocking his hip against the counter by the sink. He crossed his arms, loose and confident, and tilted his head to the side. If he could guess what was making Kurapica balk, he didn’t comment. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“Your expertise with art forgeries,” Kurapica explained. If Lucilfer felt threatened in any way, he didn’t show it, to the blond’s intense annoyance. “We’re trying to determine if a painting is an original and I’ve been assured you would be able to tell us if it is.”

“Hm, that depends on the painter.”

“Renoir.”

“Ah, you’re in luck,” Lucilfer said pleasantly. “I’m quite interested in French Impressionism.”

Kurapica turned to one of the easels in the corner of the room. “So I see,” he commented. “It’s probably getting you millions of dollars with every sale.”

“This isn’t for sale,” Kuroro waved dismissively. “That would be illegal. I’m just practising.”

“And it just so happens to be a Degas.”

“Many artists paint reproduction. That’s not a crime.”

“No, but selling them as the real thing is.”

Lucilfer had a small, secret smile. “Like I said, this is just practice. It isn’t for sale, unless someone wants a clearly marked _reproduction_ of a Degas.”

Kurapica took the few paces separating him from the easel. “I certainly hope I won’t find this one at Sotheby’s anytime soon.”

“How could it be? The original is at the Musée d’Orsay.”

Kurapica turned from the painting in progress, already tired of the slippery verbal dance. “There’s a possibility that a Renoir might not be the original,” he said. “Would you be able to tell if it’s real or a forgery?”

“Which painting are we talking about?” Lucilfer asked, unrolling his sleeves. “If it’s one I’ve seen in person before, I might be more apt to recognize the craquelure.”

Kurapica marked a pause, as he again debated the wisdom of trusting someone like Kuroro Lucilfer with so delicate a task. Then he sighed and raked a hand through his hair. _“Two Sisters,”_ he finally answered.

If he had been less observant, he might have not noticed the slight twitch of Lucilfer’s fingers as they gripped, then stilled for a second on the fabric of his shirt, before finally adjusting the cuff. The man turned to face him fully, large grey eyes fixed on Kurapica’s own blue ones.

“Renoir’s _Two Sisters_ is a particular favourite of mine. You’re saying the Art Institute lost it?”

“Possibly,” Kurapica hedged. “Well, that’s what they’re debating right now. Will you help?”

Lucilfer gave him a charming smile. “For a beauty like you? Sure, I’ll help, sweetheart.”

Kurapica pursed his lips. “I’m reconsidering,” he said flatly. He knew it was a redirection, but this kind of eye-roll worthy, half-assed flirting would _not_ fly. “You call me sweetheart again and I’m sending you back to whatever hell you crawled out from.”

Lucilfer had a strange expression flit across his face for a moment, but it was quickly gone, before Kurapica had the time to identify what it was, and his features smoothed out. He grabbed a blazer from a hook by the door and slid it on his muscular shoulders. “Understood, Agent Kuruta,” he said. “Lead the way.”

Kurapica narrowed his eyes and studied the man for a moment longer.

“If it were up to me,” he growled, “I’d never consider asking you. But Melody—that is, Ms. Senritsu, curator at the Art Institute—specifically asked for you. I’m doing this as a favour for _her_ , but I want as little to do with you as possible.

Having said his piece, he turned around and opened the door, not waiting for a response from the other man. He was about to walk down the same corridor, when Lucilfer put a hand to his arm and pointed to a heavy, metal double door to their left. The man walked to a keypad and quickly inputted a number code, then pressed the bar and opened the door. He motioned for  Kurapica to go through, then followed after the blond. Kurapica could feel the hair on the back of his neck rising, just from having the man he knew—he _knew_ —to be a criminal walking behind him.

He moved to the side and slowed down so Lucilfer could step in beside him, just so Kurapica didn’t have to feel him at his back. The man dug a cellphone out of the inner pocket of his blazer and a set of keys out of his trouser pocket. He pressed a button on the fob, making a car chirp close-by, just as he pressed the phone to his ear. Kurapica stopped short, and Lucilfer took just another step before turning towards him. 

“Ah, Paku,” he said into the phone, tone pleasant, cutting off whatever Kurapica had been about to say, “I’m going to be away for a bit. I’ll call you when I know when I’ll be returning.” A pause. “No, no, we’re not talking days, more like hours. All right. Yes, I’ll be counting on you.”

He ended the call and returned his phone to his pocket, his gaze turning in askance towards the blond. 

“I’m not getting in your car,” Kurapica said. “I’m not stupid. We’re using mine.”

Lucilfer looked thoughtful for a minute, then he pressed another button on his key fob and his car chirped again. “As you wish.”

 

* * *

 

The drive to the Art Institute was mostly silent, a fact for which Kurapica was incredibly grateful, especially when the only reaction Lucilfer had had to his car was one slightly uplifted eyebrow. Kurapica’s old Ford might not have been a Jaguar, but it was running perfectly well, and Kurapica didn’t have forged paintings on sale to make him a quick million or five. 

Melody greeted them at the doors and put a hand on Kurapica’s shoulder. “Thank you,” she told him, before turning her attention on his companion. “And thank you for coming as well, Mr. Lucilfer.”

The man in question placed a hand to his chest and bowed slightly. “I’m honoured you called upon my help, Ms. Senritsu,” he replied gravely, before his lips quirked a bit in amusement. Melody’s lips pulled into a tired, but genuine smile. Kurapica glanced between them, unsure whether he should be alarmed or not that despite the formal tone, Lucilfer and Melody seemed to have some sort of understanding from which he felt utterly excluded.

“Shall we?” Lucilfer finally said, motioning towards the doors, and Melody nodded, making her way inside and holding the door for them. 

She led them through the atrium and to one side for the employee section of the building. They followed her through a few doors that required her magnetic card to open, down a couple of corridors, and finally to the lab where experts were debating the painting in question under the surveillance of another employee. 

Melody, Lucilfer and Kurapica stood to the side, watching the experts argue varnish, craquelure and pigments. As unobtrusively as she could, Melody explained the situation they’d found themselves in. She showed them the crate, and where there seemed to be marks of someone trying to open it, she explained how the scans had been erased sometime during the night, both in the computer and on the external server where backups were always kept. Lucilfer listened in silence, the knuckle of his forefinger pressed against his chin in thought, nodding occasionally to show that he was listening. 

The experts came back with one absolutely certain that the painting was the original Renoir, but the other two were both uncertain and couldn’t come to a decision. And, just like that, Lucilfer took over their position and pulled the magnifying glass fastened to a drafting table with a metallic arm. It had a light around the glass and reminded Kurapica of a mix between a dentist’s light and a flying saucer. 

Kurapica stood by Melody and put a hand to her shoulder, giving it an encouraging squeeze. She raised her hand to squeeze his fingers in return. Then, they waited.

Lucilfer was leaning over the painting, moving the magnifier as needed as he went over the entire painting inch by inch, and Kurapica studied him in turn with narrowed eyes, trying to read the truth on the lines of his handsome face. There was a slight frown marring Lucilfer’s expression, the tiniest wrinkle appearing between his eyebrows. As he slowly went over the artwork, that wrinkle intensified. The blond was so intent on cataloguing every microexpression that he was able to perceive a slight stiffening, then forced smoothing of features, somewhere about one-third of the way down. Kurapica expected him to say something then, but Lucilfer simply moved the magnifier and kept going. He continued studying the painting, and didn’t say anything until he’d reached the bottom-right corner. Then, finally, Lucilfer straightened up.

“It’s a fake,” he finally decided, gathering the attention of every single person in the room. The short beat of absolute silence was deafening, as if everyone was holding their breath.

“How would _you_ know,” snarled one of the experts, the one who was certain it was the real thing. 

Melody put a light, gentle hand on the man’s arm. When she spoke, however, she was addressing Lucilfer. “What gave you that impression?” she asked him gently.

“The craquelure is close, but not quite the same, and there’s the tiniest deviation….” He moved the magnifier to hover above part of the red hat, just behind the older sister’s left ear. “If you look very carefully, there’s a darker spot, right here.” He stepped away from the painting. “It’s not in the original. I’ve painted it enough to know every inch of it by heart.”

He turned and caught the blond’s narrowed look. Kurapica crossed his arms in front of his chest. “You’ve painted it.”

Lucilfer’s grin was unapologetic. “For study,” he lied (he had to be lying, Kurapica was sure of it). “Like I’ve told you, most art students study and repaint old master’s works. It is a fairly common practice.”

The experts were taking turns with the magnifier, and saying words that were most unbecoming from stuffy old academics. Meanwhile, Kuroro slid his hands into the pockets of his fancy slacks and turned towards the diminutive curator. “I’m very sorry, Ms. Senritsu. This painting isn’t the real thing.”

The stodgy old men looked defeated in front of the forged artwork. Melody let out a small, quiet sigh. “Thank you for your input, gentlemen,” she said, her voice kind and gentle despite the hard blow she’d just been dealt. She turned to Kurapica. “I’m going to have to talk to the board, and we’ll decide how to proceed from there. Until then, I’ll have to ask you,” she turned to the room at large, “every single one of you to keep this quiet, until we’ve made a decision.”

Kurapica didn’t miss the way her gaze strayed to Lucilfer. There seemed to be an entire conversation passing between the two, one that Kurapica wasn’t privy to, then Lucilfer nodded and Melody had a small, rather sad smile.

“Wouldn’t it be best to declare the painting stolen?” one of the experts asked. “The faster we act, the faster we can reclaim it. We shouldn’t leave the perpetrators time to sell it on.”

“No,” Kurapica declared, quickly stepping forward, “if we alert the media now, unscrupulous collectors will just come out of the woodwork, trying to get their grubby hands on it.” He took out his I.D. folder and flashed it at large so everyone in the room would know he was dead serious, and also knew what he was talking about. “Most art thefts are done either for a patron, or to hold the artwork in ransom. We need to discreetly warn custom officials to check paintings of a similar size, but the less the public knows, right now, the better it is going to be.” He turned towards Melody. “I’ll have to give Netero a head’s up.”

She sighed. “You know best. Thank you, Kurapica. I guess we both have an uncomfortable meeting in store today.”

Kurapica scoffed and nodded in agreement, although there was nothing really funny about this. “If you need me, call my work phone.”

“Are you avoiding personal calls again?” she asked with a smile that was just a shade too sad to pull off teasing. 

Kurapica shrugged. “Good luck with your meeting, Melody.” He moved his gaze to Lucilfer, who was watching him from under heavy lids, hands in the pockets of his slacks. Kurapica jerked his head towards the door and, together, they made their way out.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _as i'm posting the entire fic today, i'm worried i won't get as many comments (aka writer/reader currency) as usual. if you have time to spare, i'd love it if you could comment on each chapter. thanks!_


	2. A Deal Or Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _featuring magnificent art by <[craziephase](https://craziephase.tumblr.com). it is seriously amazingly gorgeous, so please go leave tons of likes and reblogs to this awesome artist!_

* * *

**Chapter 2**

**A Deal Or Three**

“What aren’t you telling me?” Kurapica asked as they slowly made their way down the steps leading away from the Art Institute.

Lucilfer glanced at him and had an amused half smile. “A great many things,” he replied blithely. 

Kurapica resisted the urge to groan and came to a halt, then waited until the taller man also stopped and turned towards him in askance. “There is something about this painting specifically, something you know and you’re not telling me, even though it could help figure out what happened.”

Lucilfer tilted his head to the side and Kurapica felt a bit like a bug under a microscope, as that heavy grey gaze studied his face. He refused to look away from that intense and serious look, but glared back challengingly at the man. A few people came up and down the stairs around them, but neither moved for a minute or so, so intent they were in their staredown.

Finally, Lucilfer shrugged lightly. “I know who painted it.”

“Who?”

“That is a heavy question,” Lucilfer said, sliding his hands into the pockets of his fancy slacks. “To be quite honest with you—” Kurapica snorted, which made Lucilfer’s lips twitch up at the corners in amusement “—I don’t really know what kind of agent you are, just yet. Are you the type to work a case until you get to the bottom of what is happening? For all I know you could be the kind of official who simply goes after the artist, disregarding the actual culprits of the theft.”

“Are you implying a forger actually painted this in good faith that it wouldn’t be used in the commission of a crime?”

“Maybe.” Lucilfer rocked back on his feet a bit, looking up at the sky for a moment. When his gaze slid back to Kurapica’s face, he looked grim. “If you do something for me, I might consider telling you.”

“I’m not going to do anything illegal,” Kurapica cautioned.

“I figured.” Lucilfer sighed, shoulders slumping a little. “I need coffee. Come with me?”

Kurapica wanted to say no. Nothing good could come out of associating with a probable (more than probable, where the FBI was concerned) criminal. And yet….

And yet.

Intrigued despite himself, Kurapica motioned to the coffee chain across the street.

The face Lucilfer made conveyed disgust and horror. “ _Real_ coffee,” he specified. “There’s a little bistro three blocks away that serves proper Italian roast.”

 

* * *

 

The blond had to hand it to him, Lucilfer knew where to get proper coffee. Kurapica  was so used to the crappy sludge they served at work that he only ever drank it for the caffeine and had developed a tolerance to foul-tasting coffee, but this cup he was sipping on now was beyond good; something he’d drink for the taste as much as for the effects. He set the cup down onto its delicate saucer and leaned back in his chair, finding Lucilfer already looking at him.

“So what’s that favour you mentioned?” Kurapica asked, averting his eyes from that piercing gaze. He watched the passersby walking along the sidewalk in front of the café instead. 

“Ah, straight to the point,” Lucilfer commented pleasantly. “I like that.” There was a moment of silence, and Kurapica refused to turn from his street-gazing to give the man his attention. Eventually, Lucilfer spoke again, his tone serious. “I’d like you to investigate this, but without tipping off the authorities.”

That brought Kurapica’s gaze back, and he studied the man before him. “I’m an FBI agent, Lucilfer,” he pointed out, annoyed that Lucilfer would have even forgotten that part. “I am the authorities.”

“I know.” The art dealer leaned back in his chair and tapped the side of his porcelain cup with one fingernail. “I’d just like to keep this between us until we find more information.”

“I can’t really investigate anything without backup or at least the sanction of the Bureau.”

“I’ll help you,” Lucilfer said, barely leaving Kurapica time to finish.

_“You?”_

There was another quiet moment, where they studied each other. Kurapica’s brow pinched above the bridge of his nose as he took his time to observe the alleged criminal before him. Kuroro Lucilfer was too smooth, too polished for it not to be a con, and the blond couldn’t help but wonder how much of what he’d heard was just the fanciful imaginings of a few romantics with too much time on their hands and a too-large collection of Maurice Leblanc novels.

Lucilfer looked relaxed and smiled easily at him, but there was tension in his strong shoulders that spoke to some amount of unease. The rhythm he was tapping against his cup was a fast, agitated thing, even though his face looked frank and open. Kurapica narrowed his eyes.

“You painted that fake, didn’t you.” He didn’t even bother making it a question.

“It’s a perfect reproduction,” Lucilfer said, which was answer enough. “A forgery is only such if passed for the real thing. Many people commission reproductions to decorate homes. It looks more stylish than a print, and doesn’t cost them millions.”

“It was never supposed to take the place of the original,” Kurapica mused softly, frowning pensively to himself. “Do you know who bought it?”

“That’s what we’ll have to find out,” Lucilfer told him. “But if you get the Bureau involved, people who maybe shouldn’t end up connected to this heist will see their livelihoods destroyed.”

“People like you.”

“People like me,” Lucilfer conceded. 

“I can’t do much without the Bureau’s backing,” Kurapica warned again. 

“I can do whatever you can’t legally do,” Lucilfer pointed out. “You need warrants, probable cause, there’s all sorts of red tape. All I need is an invitation or two. And I do get invited to a lot of events.”

Kurapica studied him carefully, something inside him telling him to be wary of this too-perfect man with his too-polished smiles and his silver tongue. “Nothing illegal,” he warned. 

Lucilfer’s smile was bright and blinding. “You will have no cause to arrest me, I promise.”

Kurapica picked up his delicate porcelain cup, then set it down without bringing it to his lips. He tapped a rhythm of his own against the side of it, considering Lucilfer’s proposition. He frowned at the dark liquid before him. This was quite risky, and it had the potential of blowing up in Kurapica’s face if Lucilfer was lying or planning to double-cross him. And yet….

And yet.

“Two weeks,” he finally allowed. “For two weeks, we do things your way. If it doesn’t pan out, then I’m going straight to my superior. And let me warn you, they will want to nail you to the wall. They’re all waiting for the perfect opportunity to get you behind bars.”

“Two weeks,” Lucilfer accepted. “Thank you. I won’t let you down.”

“I’m expecting a let down,” Kurapica scoffed. “I just hope it won’t cost me my career.”

“We won’t let it come to that.”

For some reason, Kurapica wanted to believe him.

 

* * *

 

Kurapica threw his blazer on the back of the couch and let himself fall on the cushion next to it with a deep sigh. His cellphone vibrated in his pocket; the front right one, meaning it was his personal phone. He ignored it, as Melody had had no breakthrough on her end in the past few days and was waiting to hear from him, and he’d told her to call his work phone anyway. The call was most likely to come from Leorio, and the man had a tendency to call just to shoot the breeze, something that Kurapica was in no mood for. It had been an insane week so far, and this was only Wednesday. He couldn’t wait until the weekend already.

After a few seconds, it stopped vibrating, and Kurapica expected a lengthy message on his voicemail, but the phone only started up again a few moments later. With a sigh, Kurapica planted his feet on the floor and lifted his butt off of the couch so he could reach into his pocket and pull out the offending device. He expected his friend’s name on the screen, but what he saw was a number with a 773 area code.

He didn’t like to answer his phone when he didn’t know the number, and he let it go to voicemail again, lowering his hand and leaning his head back against the back of the couch, eyes closed.

The third time it started vibrating, he’d worked up the curiosity to see what this was about. With a deep, put-upon sigh, he slid his thumb to accept the call and answered with an abrupt, business-like, “Kuruta.”

“I’m surprised that it only took me three tries to get you to answer,” said a smooth voice on the other end. It niggled at Kurapica’s memory, and he moved his phone to look at the number again. 773 covered Pilsen, didn’t it?

“Lucilfer. How did you get this number?”

“How many people think they have the wrong number?” the art dealer asked instead of answering. “No one here can say the name Kuruta properly. Does anyone ever ask if you’re the Karoota they expect your name to sound like?”

Kurapica pinched the bridge of his nose and wished for patience. “Why are you calling?”

“I may have information on the Renoir,” Lucilfer said. “The fake one, I mean. It was sold through an agent, so getting the information through official channels might take a while, but I’ve already got a name for you.”

Kurapica sat up quickly. “You what? You got a name?” He scrambled for a piece of paper and a pen. “What is it?”

“Well….” Lucilfer hesitated for a moment. “It’s more of an alias than a name. But if you come with me to meet him, you might get more information.”

That dampened Kurapica’s elation quite a bit. He certainly didn’t relish the idea of going anywhere with Lucilfer again, especially when it concerned the underground art market. “Lucilfer—” he began.

“From now on, we’re in this together. You might as well call me Kuroro.”

“I investigate art theft and forgery for a living, Lucilfer. I have no intention of involving myself with you anymore than I absolutely have to.”

“Can’t imagine why,” the other said drily. “Listen, this is a very close-knit group. You need someone to vet for you. With your baby face, we can work something out where no one suspects you of being a fed, but you’ll still need someone to introduce you, and I’m your man.”

Kurapica was silent for some time, weighing his options. He still wasn’t sure why Lucilfer was helping him on this. This could all be a con, or Lucilfer could turn around and demand to get out of jail when he inevitably tripped up and got himself caught. Either way, Kurapica didn’t like the thought of being indebted to an _alleged_ criminal. 

“You promised me two weeks,” the art dealer insisted, when the silence stretched on for too long. “It has only been a few days, so you owe me a week and a half still.”

“I wasn’t aware we’d signed a contract on this,” Kurapica sent back.

“Should we have?” Lucilfer asked, his tone both dark and teasing all at once.

Kurapica found himself becoming a little flustered, which irritated him. He heaved a deep sigh and fished around for some desperately needed patience. “All right, Kuroro,” he finally said, the words rushing out lest he reconsidered his partnership with this man any further. He had a case, and he had to solve it before everything blew up in his face. He didn’t think the Bureau would take too kindly to him going rogue on this, but if he cracked it open and delivered all the elements neatly wrapped in irrefutable evidence, then he might actually still have a career at the end of this. “You still have ten days to prove to me I’m not a fool to trust you on this.”

“I am confident we will see this through, you and me,” Lucilfer—Kuroro—said, and Kurapica could _hear_ the pleased smile in his voice.

“So when is this meeting?” the blond asked, refusing to dwell on Kuroro’s voice, of all things.

“Now, if you would allow me to drive you,” the man answered smoothly. “I could be at your house in fifteen to twenty minutes.”

“You know where I live,” Kurapica didn’t quite ask, cold dread seeping into his bones.

“I don’t have the exact address yet,” Kuroro assured him, and the agent relaxed a little. “I assume you’re in the city, but are you perhaps commuting from the suburbs?”

“Bridgeport,” Kurapica answered automatically. 

“Great, I can probably be there in ten. Which address?”

Kurapica only hesitated a second before giving him the door number and street name. “Make it twenty,” he said, “I need a shower.”

He hung up before the man had time to say anything further, and he heaved himself out of the sofa with intense regret.  He headed up the stairs for a quick shower, then stood in his bedroom, wrapped in a towel, considering the inside of his closet. He couldn’t wear his work suit, not if they were going to meet with a fence; it would probably out him as a fed right away. But his faded jeans and t-shirts wouldn’t really cut it either.

He took a deep breath. Well, there was that one outfit…. He’d only worn it at home, unsure how it would look to people outside. A young man wearing somewhat feminine clothes was not all that widely accepted, but he was going with Kuroro and the man’s opinion mattered very little. It was different from anything Kurapica would wear in his so-called _normal_ life. 

He pulled on the long, Turkey red cable knit sweater with a deep V collar that he favoured, and paired it with a pair of tan leggings and block heel ankle boots. It flirted the edge between masculine and feminine, something that he’d been exploring more and more when at home. He tied his hair up in a loose ponytail at the back of his head, then fussed at his bangs a little.

The doorbell rang and he swallowed his anxiety and made his way downstairs. When he opened the door, Kuroro was standing there in a stylish three-piece suit and skinny tie. The art dealer paused, eyeing Kurapica up and down.

  
art by [craziphase](https://craziephase.tumblr.com), [click](https://craziephase.tumblr.com/post/185794141955/hxhbb19-here-are-the-drawings-for-my-fic-misc) for larger view.

“You’re looking good,” he praised, his tone definitely impressed. “I wasn’t aware that this was a date; I’d have dressed better.”

“I’m not the one wearing a suit,” Kurapica pointed out, wrapping a loose scarf around his neck. He had a small satchel by the door, and he emptied it of his work files, then placed his wallet and phones inside it instead. When he straightened up, Kuroro was still watching him. The blond tried not to get flustered under his heavy gaze. “So are we going or what?” he asked as he hooked the strap of his bag over one shoulder. 

Kuroro didn’t answer, but stepped out of the doorway and back onto the stoop. He waited patiently while Kurapica locked his door and slid his keys into his bag, then motioned for the blond to precede him with a gentlemanly bow.

Kurapica barely managed to resist the temptation to scoff as he brushed by. “I don’t even know where—Did you just double park right in front of my house?”

“Yep!” Kuroro answered cheerfully. 

“That’s illegal,” Kurapica pointed out.

“Oh, please,” Kuroro said pleasantly, “ _if_ some asshole even sees the car, the fine’s at most—what, three hundred dollars?” He made a soft huff of dismissal.

Kurapica wanted to strangle him.

“So that’s—what, like the price of double parking to you? Like paid parking?”

“Well,” Kuroro pressed his key fob and his ostentatious Mercedes chirped, “a mix of paid parking and lottery, I suppose, though instead of having a slim chance of winning, I have a slim chance of losing.”

“I could report you,” Kurapica felt the need to point out.

“Then I’d pay the fine. Get in.”

The blond took a deep breath to try and remain calm. He folded himself into the passenger seat, then closed the door behind him. “So who is this contact of yours?” he asked the rich asshole next to him as soon as they’d settled and Kuroro had started the car. 

 “He goes by Paladin,” the man answered, stepping on the accelerator.

Kurapica grabbed the panic handle. “Paladin,” he scoffed. “Not quite the name I imagined for a fence. I doubt he’s one of the Twelve Peers of Charlemagne’s court.”

“Eighth century history,” Kuroro mused, surprising the blond. 

“Yes, or eleventh century French bardic folklore, depending on your interest.”

“You sound surprised,” Kuroro said mildly, glancing at him.

Kurapica took a moment to gather his thoughts, impressed despite himself that Kuroro would know about such an obscure historical footnote, but he didn’t think the man would appreciate being underestimated. Then again, Kurapica didn’t really care what the man thought. “I didn’t expect you to know anything other than how to forge paintings and bonds.”

“I have a wide field of interest.” If Kuroro was offended, he didn’t let it show. “And I’m an avid reader.”

“Oh,” Kurapica said, then wasn’t sure why he tacked on, “me too.”

“Favourite topic?”

“Anthropology and history. You?”

“Can’t say I have a favourite field of study. I like everything.”

Kurapica accepted that with a nod. He didn’t really want to talk too much to the man (he was, after all, a criminal, whether anything had been proven or not), yet he was intrigued. 

“What are you reading at the moment?” he found himself asking.

 

* * *

 

The drive to Fuller Park went smoothly, time passing quickly as they discussed the cryptography book that Kuroro was in the process of going through whenever he found the time to read.  Kurapica only knew the broad lines of how to decrypt documents, and he was fascinated in spite of his best effort. 

“Here we are,” Kuroro finally said, putting his car in park inside of a darkened underground lot. There were a few other cars here and there, but the place looked otherwise deserted.

“This… doesn’t look ominous at all,” Kurapica commented, itching with the need to search the place to make sure no one was hidden anywhere. The cars would provide perfect cover for a few unscrupulous gunmen.

“Relax, I’ve dealt with him before,” Kuroro said, which did absolutely nothing to reassure the blond. “He’s harmless. He doesn’t really deal in illegal stuff, he’s just good at finding stuff you need or connecting buyers and sellers, but he’s not into anything hardcore.”

“This is my reassured face,” Kurapica motioned to his deadpan expression, and Kuroro chuckled softly. 

“You could wait in the car, if you’re worried.”

There was a challenging edge hidden underneath his words and Kurapica pursed his lips with displeasure. 

“I don’t trust you half as far as I can throw you,” he growled warningly. “I’m coming with you.”

“As you wish,” Kuroro said simply. He put a hand to the handle of his door, then paused. “May I ask something?”

“If it’s about my clothes,” Kurapica warned, catching the curious glance the man threw towards his scarf, or maybe his collar bones, “then the answer is no.”

For some reason that Kurapica couldn’t fathom, Kuroro smiled and inclined his head, accepting that without comment. They both climbed out of the Mercedes (far too conspicuous, in Kurapica’s opinion, though he didn’t think that the government issued black SUVs, with their tinted windows, were any less noticeable) and met again in front of the rounded grill. 

Kuroro fixed his eyes on the agent with him, but Kurapica was too busy scanning the lot to bother berating him for it. He could feel the question, hovering unspoken in the air between them, and he wrapped his arms protectively in front of his chest. Kuroro’s opinion didn’t matter, _it did not matter._

A car turned into the parking lot with its headlights off, and Kurapica’s mind was thankfully diverted from his increasing nervousness. He figured driving to a meet like this would make sense, but the sheer cliché of it nearly made him roll his eyes. The car rolled slowly up to them, and there was something familiar about the model that niggled at Kurapica’s memory.

That was, until the man stepped out of the driver’s side door, unfurling his long, lanky body, his height only made more ridiculous by the spiky black hair defying gravity on top of his head. 

“Leorio!” Kurapica all but choked.

“Do I—Kurapica?!”

“What the hell are you doing here?!” they all but said in unison.

Kuroro looked from one to the other. “I gather you two know each other,” he commented drily.

 

* * *

 

“You drove up with _him?_ ” Leorio asked, a minute later, when the shock had worn off and, seeing how he wasn’t in any immediate danger with his friend, they’d all climbed back into Kuroro’s car to talk.

“You’ve done business with him,” Kurapica grumbled, “I don’t see how you think you can judge my life choices at the moment.”

“I still wouldn’t get in a car with him,” Leorio sent back, then amended, “well, if you weren’t here, anyway.”

“We’re here for the Renoir,” Kuroro cut in smoothly. “You two surely can discuss your dislike of me at your leisure when you next get together.” He turned to look at Leorio, who was folded uncomfortably on the back seat. “The reproduction from my gallery, you took care of that sale, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” Leorio hedged.

Kurapica’s temper flared. “Leorio, this is fucking serious,” he growled, and his friend’s eyes widened at the curse. “There’s going to be an investigation. An _FBI_ investigation. I can’t believe you were stupid enough to work with criminals.”

“You’re one to talk!” Leorio sent back angrily, falling into their old, familiar pattern of arguing about everything without missing a beat. “You’re with _him_ right now, aren’t you?”

“Whatever happened to being innocent until proven guilty?” Kuroro asked mildly, though amusement danced in his dark grey eyes. 

“Shut up, Kuroro,” Kurapica growled warningly.

“And calling him by name?” Leorio nearly sounded shocked. “You still call your coworkers by their surnames!”

“It’s a law enforcement thing,” Kurapica protested. “Stop changing the topic! We need to know who bought the Renoir reproduction!”

“I was paid to forget that information. It paid all my textbooks for all of last year. Do you have any idea how much that shit costs?!”

“It could cost you your freedom if you don’t remember it in the next minute,” Kurapica growled. 

“Wait, I just sold a painted reproduction,” Leorio protested. “It’s not like I stole a million dollar painting or whatever!”

“That painted reproduction is now sitting at the Art Institute,” Kuroro cut in, “in place of the original.”

Leorio gaped. He tried to speak a few times, but no words came out of his mouth. Kurapica sighed and turned forward so he could hit the back of his head against the headrest of his seat. He closed his eyes.

“Leorio,” he tried again, calmer now, “whoever commissioned the reproduction meant to steal the original. They switched them last weekend and unless we find who that thief is, then both you and Kuroro will be arrested as accomplices. I have to figure out how this entire thing played out before my superiors decide to bring the full force of the law down on your heads.”

Leorio was silent a long, careful moment. “I’m no snitch,” he finally said. “The only reason I can do what I do is because people trust that I won’t talk.” Kurapica took in a deep breath, preparing to argue further, but Leorio continued, “This conversation never happened. I’ll give you a name, and you nail the guy, but you gotta promise me not to bring me into this.”

“I promise,” Kuroro answered solemnly. “No one will know.”

Kurapica’s head swivelled to face the art dealer. “Kuroro, you can’t promise him that, my job—”

“Is your job more important than your friend?”

Kurapica had no decent answer to give him, and he closed his mouth, teeth clicking together.

“The name,” Kuroro prodded again, turning back to the man on the back seat.

Leorio huffed, then raked a hand through his spikes, undoing the hairdo. “Nostrade,” he finally allowed. “His name his Light Nostrade. He’s got a mansion in—”

“I know where he lives,” Kuroro cut in. “And word is he’s having a party this weekend.” His eyes met Kurapica’s and he grinned. “Will you be my plus one to this lavish event?”

“That makes it sound like you’re asking him on a date,” Leorio grumbled from the back seat. 

Kuroro didn’t refute it, and Kurapica felt compelled to bite out, “It’s _work._ ”

“So you’ll go?”

Kurapica heaved in a deep sigh and slowly let it out. “Count me in.”

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _as i'm posting the entire fic today, i'm worried i won't get as many comments (aka writer/reader currency) as usual. if you have time to spare, i'd love it if you could comment on each chapter. thanks!_


	3. A Walking Cliché

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _this chapter has another art piece from the talented[craziephase](https://craziephase.tumblr.com)! go give them some love!_

* * *

 

**Chapter 3**

**A Walking Cliché**

 

“You’ve agreed awfully fast,” Kuroro commented, making the blond huff.

“Did you want me to refuse?”

“No,” the art dealer admitted, then gave Kurapica a slow once-over. “I just thought you’d fight me on the dress.”

“Because males usually shy away from wearing dresses.” Kurapica shrugged, then waved a lazy hand before him. “You’re not an idiot, and you’ve seen how I was dressed last Wednesday, so I know you’ve realized I’m not exactly attached to the gender I was assigned at birth. Besides, most gender distinctions are social constructs and have little to do with one’s sexual organs and everything to do with upbringing and societal pressures. My upbringing was unconventional at best, and society’s opinion of me is so far down the list of things that matter that it’s not even on it at all.”

“My, my, Mr. Agent, sir,” Kuroro drawled, giving him his most charming grin (which, Kurapica hated to admit, was an  _ extremely _ fetching thing; something the man was most likely very aware of and used to his advantage in every con he pulled), “who would have thought you would turn out to be so interesting.”

“I’m not.” Kurapica snatched the dress from the hook the hanger was dangling from. “I’m as boring as they come. Nothing interesting here.”

“I beg to differ.”

There was the slow once-over again, and Kurapica resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Even with the dress on, I don’t have the most feminine body shape. The folds at the front might conceal my lack of breasts, but women usually have thinner—is that a corset?”

Kuroro was dangling something the same colour as the dress from his forefinger and still giving him that goddamn smile. “Waist cincher,” he specified. “That colour was really hard to find, too. I didn’t want it to show through the dress, though many women use them as well.”

“Did you just want an excuse to make me suffer? Because your presence is enough, I assure you.”

“Maybe a bit,” Kuroro admitted. “But I have to say I’m delighted to find out you’re genderqueer. Should I change the pronouns I use for you?”

“No, I’m fine being male, I’m just not absolutely attached to it. And if you tell me you have a kink, I’m making you swallow the dress  _ and _ the shoes.”

“I wouldn’t call it a kink,” Kuroro said with a shrug. “I just like things not to be common and boring. You definitely weren’t boring to begin with, no matter what you say; this is just another layer of interesting on top of gorgeous and highly intelligent.”

“Are… you  _ flirting _ with me?”

“Me?” Kuroro asked innocently, pressing a hand to his chest. “Why, I would never, Mr. FBI!”

Kurapica brandished the dress under Kuroro’s nose. “One day,” he swore, “I’m going to find a way to lock you up for good.”

“Oh, are we discussing  _ your _ kinks now?”

Kurapica made a sound of extreme frustration and stalked towards the door, hoping to find a bathroom to change in. He crossed the small, elegantly furnished lounge, one door down from the studio where he’d first laid eyes on the art dealer, and wrenched the doorknob with more force than strictly necessary. He heard Kuroro follow behind him and made sure to slam the door in his face. 

“You forgot the cincher!” Kuroro said, muffled through the wood. “And we should do the makeup and hair too, unless you want to stay in the dress for hours while Paku and Machi work on you.”

Kurapica didn’t know who Paku and Machi were, but he had to admit that the thought of having a cincher tight around his midsection for an hour (or multiple hours, apparently) was not remotely appealing. He opened the door again. “Fine, where are these people?” 

Kuroro’s smile was toothy. “They’re in the shop. Come back in, I’ll call them.”

Kurapica pursed his lips and studied Kuroro’s face, but it was so carefully charming that Kurapica couldn’t get a read on him. Whoever these people were, if they were friends of Kuroro’s, then it was likely they were criminals as well. Still, there was no way that Kurapica could do this on his own, so he nodded and stepped back in.

 

* * *

Kurapica had to admit the women—Paku, it turned out, was the clerk he’d met at the gallery the previous week, and Machi was a petite woman with purple hair he’d never met before—had done a pretty fantastic job of it. He couldn’t even really recognize himself in the mirror. His hair had been teased and curled, extensions added in and twisted into a complicated updo, and the makeup made his face look softer, his eyes larger and gave him killer cheekbones. The accent had been put on his eyes, in shades of blue and black, while his lips were coated in a soft pink film that felt odd. Actually, his entire face felt strange. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just… weird.

“The extensions feel strange,” he commented. “My head feels oddly heavy.”

“Oh, but you look ravishing, my dear,” Kuroro told him with that grin firmly in place as he stepped behind him and met his gaze in the mirror above the cluttered desk they’d used as an impromptu vanity. “Now time to get you into that gorgeous dress to complete the look.”

He made his way to the hook where the dress once more hung from its hanger, and smoothed perceived wrinkles from the rough handling Kurapica had given it earlier. He turned to the blond, his grin a little too dangerous for Kurapica’s tastes. “Shall we get you into the cincher first? I’ll help you put it on.”

“If you get a boner from that, I’m punching it,” Kurapica warned, getting to his feet. He felt strangely self-conscious as he undid the buttons of his shirt, but Kuroro wasn’t even looking at him, opting instead for retrieving the cincher from an ornate side table. 

Once Kurapica’s shirt had been discarded, Kuroro helped him into the garment, lacing it loosely at first, then tighter and tighter.

“Can you breathe?” he checked after a moment.

“You can tighten it a bit more,” Kurapica said, one hand to his stomach. He let out a soft sound as Kuroro pulled on the lace. “Okay, this should work.”

He felt Kuroro tie the ribbon and waited until the man stepped away to turn around and face him. The forger slid his hands into his pockets and tilted his head to one side, studying Kurapica’s face carefully.

“Paku did excellent work on the makeup,” he commented, “and I’ll compliment Machi for the hair; not that she’ll care much. Come on, put the dress on.”

“Get out of the room. I’m not changing with you here.”

“You’re already half-naked,” Kuroro commented.

“And that’s all you’re going to see. Get out.”

“I want to see what underwear you’re wearing. Are you going to tuck your—”

_ “Out!” _

This time, Kuroro thankfully saluted him with one lazy finger, as if lifting an invisible hat, and turned away. Once the door was closed, Kurapica let out a sigh. This man was going to be the death of him, he was sure of it. 

He walked to the blue, shimmery dress that Kuroro had chosen for him and let his fingers slide over the satiny fabric. A part of him was anxious, but most of his feelings ran towards amazement and elation at the chance of feeling this against his skin. With a glance towards the door, he undid his jeans and let them fall to the floor.

After another reverential touch to the dress, he retrieved his bag and fished out a leg holster he’d bought when he’d first toyed with the idea of wearing a dress one day. He hadn’t quite expected it to happen so soon, but he was glad he’d bought the thing already. He quickly strapped it to his upper thigh, then slid a small pistol into it, keeping half of his attention on the door. Once his weapon was secured, he again retrieved the dress from its hanger and carefully slid into it, mindful of his hair and makeup. The fabric was so silky, it slipped over his skin like a caress.

Walking carefully back to the mirror, he adjusted the loose folds at the front to make sure they fell in a way that made him look like he had small breasts. He was thin enough that it looked natural. Then he checked that his cincher wasn’t showing at the back, where the dress scooped low with more loose fabric hanging from his shoulders. Finally, he made sure his holster and gun were high enough on his thigh not to show in the slit cut into the fabric on one side. Satisfied, he stepped into his shoes, high pumps with large heels fastened to look like chains. He took a few tentative steps, trying to make sure he could walk without falling flat on his face.

There was a knock at the door. “Are you decent?” Kuroro asked politely from the other side.

“Yeah, come in,” Kurapica said, looking at himself in the mirror again. He looked—and felt—fantastic. He didn’t know why he’d waited so long to explore this side of himself more fully. 

The door clicked open and Kuroro walked in, changed into stylish, charcoal slacks, a lavender shirt, a waistcoat that matched his pants and an undone black tie wrapped around his neck. He was carrying a charcoal jacket draped over one elbow. 

He paused just inside the door and his gaze slid down Kurapica’s form, then back up, and down again. “Ravishing,” he complimented. “Absolutely delightful.”

Kurapica didn’t know how to feel. He was flattered, of course, but torn over the fact that he felt flattered by a compliment from a  _ criminal. _ He cleared his throat uncomfortably and returned his gaze to the mirror. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Kuroro approach him and hang his jacket over the back of the chair Kurapica had been sitting in when his hair was being tortured and his face painted. Kuroro quickly knotted his tie and buttoned his vest. 

“You’re missing a bit of jewellery,” he told the blond. “No woman worth a bottle of Brignac would go to a soirée without some jewellery.”

From out of one pocket, he pulled a long box, and opened it to reveal a set of earrings with matching choker necklace and bracelet, which he slowly put on the blond. His fingertips slid over Kurapica’s skin, and the agent had to repress a shiver. He didn’t know what to feel about being decorated like a christmas tree, but he didn’t quite hate it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to know whether this was costume jewellery or the real deal.

Kuroro stepped back and cocked his head to the side, giving Kurapica a slow once over, then he nodded, obviously satisfied with the result. Then he pulled a smaller box from his other pocket and grinned, meeting Kurapica’s eyes.

“Ring for your finger?”

Kurapica turned from the mirror and shot him a curious look. Kuroro held up a delicate ring with a red stone set in the centre and three clear ones, much smaller, on either side of it.  The blond eyed it, his misgivings getting the best of him.

“Is that thing real?”

“Ruby and diamonds on white gold. Don’t lose it.”

“Where did you steal that from?”

“I’d tell you, but you’d have to arrest me.”

“You actually stole it,” Kurapica said, nearly choking. He wasn’t particularly surprised, but he hadn’t expected Kuroro to just admit to it.

_ “Allegedly,” _ Kuroro said, his grin wider for a moment, before he schooled his features. “Don’t worry, you won’t find it on any report. It’s just more fun to see you look so scandalized than to explain where it comes from.”

Kurapica huffed and snatched the ring from his fingers. “I don’t want to know, I just  _ don’t _ want to know,” he growled. He slipped the ring onto his finger and was surprised to find that it fit perfectly. That gave him pause and he frowned at it. “How did you know my ring size? Even I don’t know what it is.”

Kuroro slid his hands back inside of the pockets of his slacks and rocked back on his feet a bit, grinning innocently at him. “Are you ready, darling? We should get going. The chauffeur’s waiting.”

Kurapica sighed and grabbed the clutch purse Kuroro had found somewhere—Kurapica didn’t want to know, he really didn’t. He took a step and grimaced as his feet slid forward in his shoes. 

“You’ve chosen the most impractical disguise ever,” he grumbled.

“Good thing we’re just doing a quick in-and-out.” Kuroro slipped into his jacket and fluffed his pocket handkerchief, then offered him his arm, and Kurapica dutifully wrapped his own around it. “If there’s any trouble, you always have that gun.”

Kurapica didn’t even know how Kuroro found out about the gun, and he didn’t want to know. He really did not want to know anything about this man anymore. He clung to his arm and together, they made their way to the backlot where Kuroro’s fancy car was waiting, Paku behind the wheel.

They slid onto the back seat, a careful distance between them, helped by the ample space inside of the car. As soon as the doors closed, Paku started the engine and drove off. Kurapica could feel his heart hammering in his chest. He’d let Kuroro convince him to come tonight, let his associates doll him up, and now, he was reconsidering, mostly because he had to be completely insane to let this crook, this criminal, control him like this.

He glanced at the man, but Kuroro looked entirely relaxed, and a little bored. He caught Kurapica looking and gave him a slight smile, but then turned his gaze away, leaving the blond to stew in his anxiety.

The drive was spent in long and, for Kurapica, uneasy silence. The plan had seemed like a good idea earlier that week, but now the agent was reconsidering everything. He didn’t think that working with Kuroro was the smartest choice, that wasn’t even a question. He should have alerted Netero, he should have filed a report, gone through the proper channels….

But then… what?

What if Kuroro was right, what if the investigation started with Kuroro and ended with Leorio and no one was ever prosecuted for the actual theft? At least this way, Kurapica could tell Melody to alert the authorities, then tell his boss he’d just happened to be at the Nostrade mansion and noticed that the man owned a painting that looked suspiciously like the original. But was that enough probable cause to issue a search warrant?

The thoughts whirled around and crowded his head, leaving him undecided and hesitant. When the car finally turned into the long, curved driveway of the Nostrade residence, Kurapica was absolutely not ready to play his part, but he had to find it in himself to at least  _ look _ it. 

Once Paku had stopped the car, Kuroro got out of his side and made his way around the back of the car to Kurapica’s door. The blond picked up his clutch purse and his courage, and stepped out of the vehicle. He immediately tripped over his uncomfortable shoes, but Kuroro deftly caught him.

“Hold on to me,” he told blond. “It’ll be easier to walk. They’ll just assume we’re a couple and it won’t look out of place.”

“I’d love to see you try and walk in these shoes,” Kurapica grouched, low enough that only the art dealer could hear him.

“You’d be surprised how well I can walk in heels,” the man replied without missing a beat. “Come on, we have a seven figure painting to find.”

Kurapica suddenly wanted to ask so,  _ so _ many questions, but Kuroro wrapped the blond’s arm around his own, shut the car door, and led him towards the lavish mansion—more like a castle, really—that housed the upscale party. 

Kuroro gave his name at the door, and they were ushered into a gilded, grand entrance hall, with curved marble staircases, all in white and gold, with red carpets and accents. People stood in clumps here and there, talking amongst themselves, all dressed in their best fineries. Kuroro placed a hand over the one Kurapica had curled around his elbow.

[](https://craziephase.tumblr.com/post/185794141955/hxhbb19-here-are-the-drawings-for-my-fic-misc)  
art by [craziphase](https://craziephase.tumblr.com), [click](https://craziephase.tumblr.com/post/185794141955/hxhbb19-here-are-the-drawings-for-my-fic-misc) for larger view.

“Let’s mingle a bit,” he suggested, leaning in to murmur into Kurapica’s ear. “But we’ll start ambling casually towards the left. We’ll search all the rooms one by one, starting from this floor.”

Mingling, it turned out, meant making passing comments here and there, stopping occasionally to exchange asinine words with vapid people Kurapica could not have cared less about. He received a lot of praise for his beauty, his amazing dress, his extravagant jewellery, but Kuroro fielded all of the questions neatly and with obviously practiced ease. They’d met through a friend at the Art Institute. No, where he’d gotten the dress and jewellery was not something he wanted to discuss, as they were presents for his beautiful  _ ‘girlfriend’ _ and he didn’t want her to know how much he’d paid for them. Yes, this was a wonderful party, and no, he didn’t know if the Zaoldycks would ever deign show up for one of these lavish soirées.

Kurapica dutifully smiled and tried to look at Kuroro like he had hung the moon, rather than like someone he’d gleefully choke to death at the end of the night. 

They started in the east wing and slowly made their way through hallways and doors. Once they’d looked into every open room (and some not so open, where Kurapica pretended not to be bothered by how easily Kuroro could pick locks without being noticed by any of the guests), they made their way to the west wing and stopped to  _ mingle _ in the entrance hall, before continuing on their search. 

They saw a lot of antiques, statues and paintings, carved wooden furniture and plush rugs, but the  _ Two Sisters _ eluded them. The ground floor covered, they headed upstairs, dodging conversations with bored, rich people as politely as they could. They went slowly, Kurapica holding onto his  _ date _ for dear life as they climbed the stairs, terrified that he’d fall off his heels and tumble down, all the way to the ground floor where he’d end up in an ungraceful heap, torn dress and bazillion dollar jewellery in pieces all around him. 

He was grateful when they reached the upper floor. Flat ground he could do. Kuroro sent him an amused smile, and Kurapica dug his fingers hard into his arm in retaliation. The man might not be able to really feel it through his jacket and shirt, but Kurapica sure hoped he did. 

They started with the west wing this time, but didn’t strike gold until the furthest room in the east wing. The room had been locked until Kuroro worked his magic, and when the door opened, it revealed an office, with a massive desk in the centre, a few bookcases filled with leatherbound volume, which made Kurapica nearly burn with envy, and behind the plush chair at the desk, there hung the large painting in a gilded frame.

Kuroro pulled the blond into the room and closed the door behind them, then went to investigate the artwork, going so far as to pull a jeweller’s loupe to study it closely. Kurapica stood by the desk, holding his breath and watching Kuroro work. 

Seconds ticked, Kurapica’s entire focus on the man before him, studying him as Kuroro placed the loupe over key parts of the painting. He started with the older sister’s hat, then studied the other girl’s flowered hat. He moved to the trees over the river in the background, studying the leaves and, Kurapica assumed, the brushstrokes used to paint them, when footsteps coming their way suddenly shifted Kurapica’s attention.

“Someone’s coming,” he hissed, moving closer instinctively. He would be no good in a fist fight, in these clothes, and he’d have to kick off the shoes if he needed to run. At least he had his gun, and Kuroro was technically a civilian.

The loupe disappeared somewhere with a quick movement of Kuroro’s hand, and the man turned towards him. The noise outside the office grew to alarming levels, the sound of at least three people, maybe more, heading their way. With one step, Kuroro closed the distance between them and pushed him back. Kurapica didn’t really have time to protest Kuroro’s hand on his behind, because a moment later, he was on the desk, with Kuroro standing between his legs.

“Kiss me,” Kuroro urged, leaning in close.

“You’re a walking cliché, Lucilfer,” the blond snarked, but then the doorknob turned and he buried both hands into that dark hair and pulled him in, both his legs hooking around the back of Kuroro’s thighs.

It was nothing, he told himself. A kiss didn’t mean anything, when they were both doing it just to save their skins, but the moment Kuroro’s tongue slid sideways over his lower lip, tasting faintly of lipstick, he shuddered. His skin seemed to heat up nearly instantly from his scalp down to the tip of his toes wedged into the uncomfortable pumps. 

“What the hell?” Someone grumped to his right, then, “What are you doing here?!”

Kurapica expected the  _ alleged _ art thief to pull away and say something slick, but somehow, Kuroro found a way to press even closer and Kurapica forgot to breathe.

“Hey!” The voice boomed again. “You’re not supposed to be here!”

Kuroro finally,  _ finally  _ wrenched himself away from the blond, though he didn’t step back, leaving Kurapica to pant softly against his chest, his forehead leaning against Kuroro’s shoulder as he tried to gather his scattered wits. 

“Oh, was this place off-limits?” Kuroro asked pleasantly. “Terribly sorry; we just wanted a little... privacy.”

“Get out,” the voice growled. “This is Mr. Nostrade’s private study and not open to guests.”

“Of course,” Kuroro said, his tone conciliatory. “Can you give us a minute to ah, straighten ourselves up?”

“One minute,” the man growled, and Kurapica sat up so he could see the intruders out of the corner of his eye. The man, who looked like a bodyguard or maybe just a gym rat, gave him a slow once over that made the blond want to take a shower. A disgustingly hungry smile pulled at the stranger’s mouth. “Don’t blame you for wanting a piece of that ass, ” he told Kuroro. “Just hurry the fuck up, or I’ll have to call my boss.”

Kurapica wanted to shower for an entire week.

“There’s no need,” Kuroro assured them. “If you could just close the door for a minute? You can leave it slightly ajar if you prefer. Just give us a moment.”

The man grunted in acknowledgement and backed out of the room with his goons, pulling the door most of the way shut.

“Well,” Kuroro said, giving Kurapica a blindingly bright smile, “that was an adventure!”

“I hate you,” Kurapica hissed, low and fervent. 

He let Kuroro help him off the desk, and he fussed at his dress a bit, making sure it fell naturally and didn’t make him look like he’d just made out with a crook on top of a fucking desk. Kuroro ran his hands through his hair to try and put it back into place, then tugged at his jacket. 

Soon, they were walking arm in arm out of the office, and the blond tried to ignore the leering looks from the assumed security personnel. They made their way back down and endured a bit more of pointless chatter, before Kuroro pulled the blond outside and called Paku to pick them up. 

It was only once they were in the car that Kurapica dared to ask the question that had tortured him since they were evicted from Nostrade’s study. 

“So, was it genuine? Is it the painting?”

“It’s the real deal,” Kuroro said gravely. “Nostrade’s got the original Renoir.”

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _as i'm posting the entire fic today, i'm worried i won't get as many comments (aka writer/reader currency) as usual. if you have time to spare, i'd love it if you could comment on each chapter. thanks!_


	4. And Yet

* * *

 

**Chapter 4**

**And Yet**

“I’ll have no choice but to alert my team,” Kurapica said an hour or so later, still dressed in the silky blue dress. He plucked at it with his fingertips, liking the feel of the delicate fabric against his skin. “We’ll need to get an official warrant to search the property, and I’m hoping that my testimony alone will be enough, but I might have to tell my superior and a judge that I’ve had your assessment that the painting at Nostrade’s is the real Renoir, so they can sign the paperwork authorizing the search.”

“That will work wonders for my reputation,” Kuroro commented, handing the agent a cup of tea, before sitting next to him on the old tweed couch. The outside of their thighs pressed together and Kurapica felt another flash of heat under his skin. 

Kissing this man had not been nearly as inconsequential as he might have hoped. He glanced at the art dealer, but averted his eyes as soon as he noticed that whatever product Kuroro had used on his hair made it stick up where Kurapica had fisted his hands in the strands. 

“You’ve cooperated fully so far,” the blond pointed out, before taking a sip of his tea and closing his eyes. He’d needed this. He almost didn’t mind that Kuroro had rifled through his kitchen to make it.

“Well, I may have had ulterior motives,” Kuroro purred, making Kurapica start a little as he said this _right_ against his ear, his lips brushing the sensitive skin.

“And we’ll definitely leave those _out_ of the report,” Kurapica growled, leaning away. “You’ve sold a painting in good faith that it would not be used illegally, and then helped me find the original while working _with_ the law and not against it. No one in their right mind would think of you as a criminal in this specific context.”

“I was not talking about my reputation as a law-abiding citizen of this country,” Kuroro pointed out, humour seeping into his words as he obligingly moved away. 

Kurapica scoffed. “I’ll make sure that Netero and whatever judge sign the warrant both know you’ll only testify if your identity is kept secret, as per our agreement.”

“If you can guarantee my anonymity, then I’ll gladly come forward,” Kuroro finally agreed, “on the one condition.”

“Another condition on top of anonymity?”

“Yes.” Kuroro turned slightly in the blond’s direction. “When this is all over, I want to meet with you again.”

This was a bad deal all around. Kurapica didn’t need to involve himself with this man anymore, and he had already crossed all sorts of professional and personal lines when it came to Kuroro Lucilfer.  And yet…. 

And yet.

“You have my number. I’ll see if I want to answer your calls.”

Kuroro’s smile was blinding.

 

* * *

 

“That is preposterous,” Netero commented genially, his tone completely belying the words he was saying. “Why, Nostrade has had this painting for over a year! If the one at the Art Institute only went missing last week, how is it that I’ve seen Nostrade’s _reproduction_ over a year ago?”

“You’ve seen it?” Kurapica asked him, surprised despite himself.

“Why, yes.” Netero leaned back in his office chair and started stroking his long, non-regulatory beard. “He was so excited when he got it that he made a point of showing it to me when I visited for a charity event that he was holding.” 

A thoughtful expression crossed his face and Kurapica knew the older agent was realizing that the wording he’d used was interesting. “Made a point of it, sir?”

“Yes,” Netero said slowly. “Yes, he did make a point of it. And mentioned that it wasn’t the real thing quite a few times.”

“Did he tell you how to distinguish it from the original?” the blond asked, barely hopeful.

“No,” Netero admitted, still stroking his beard, “he didn’t tell me. But surely, if he’s had it for a year, while the original was at the Art Institute, then it couldn’t have been the real thing then.” He straightened slightly. “You think the reproduction and the original have been switched?”

“Yes,” Kurapica said right away, “we’re sure.”

_“We?”_  

Kurapica straightened up and nodded. “Yes, Melody—that is, Ms. Senritsu—and myself, as well as… a third party.”

Netero linked his fingers together and rested his hands on his stomach, studying Kurapica with a hooded gaze. He considered him for some time, and Kurapica returned the stare unflinchingly. 

“You must be sure of your source, seeing how you’re bringing them into this without giving me a name,” Netero finally said. “I’ll still need them to come forward. I know you, and I trust your judgment, but I’ll still need to convince a judge to sign off a search warrant. Just saying you saw the painting and are convinced it’s not the reproduction that Nostrade claims it is won’t really cut it for a judge.” He stroked his beard again. “I’ll admit that his eagerness to show me the reproduction is suspicious, but we’ll still need probable cause.”

“What if I can get you the painter who made that reproduction and identified it at the Art Institute after the box and scans were tampered with?

“Ah, then I’m sure we can get a judge to sign the warrant, if they're willing to come in.”

Kurapica marked a pause. “Can we protect his identity from the public? He doesn’t want his name associated with the case.”

“He painted the fake, didn’t he?

“In good faith,” Kurapica found himself saying. He couldn’t believe that he was standing here, protecting an _alleged_ criminal. “He was genuinely surprised to find it at the Art Institute and he… may have gotten me inside of Nostrade’s mansion to confirm the switch. Why would he do all of this if he had painted the forgery specifically to help in the theft? He never had to get involved at all, and yet he’s involved himself and helped me.”

Netero was watching him again, studying him, his countenance mild and pleasant, but his eyes sharp and calculating. “Do you trust him?” he asked at length.

“On this matter? Yes.”

“So if I guarantee his anonymity, would he be ready to write a signed deposition for the judge?”

“He will,” Kurapica assured him, hoping that he was right about all of this. “It’s a bit of a deal with the devil, but I am absolutely certain of this man, at least where this case is concerned.”

Netero watched him for a while longer, then he let out a sigh. “All right, I’ll get the forms for an agreement to keep his anonymity, but this has better hold up.”

He leaned forward and picked up his phone, then pressed one of the speed dials. “Beans? Get me one of the useless lawyers we pay way too much for. We need to draft an agreement with a shifty informant. Five minutes.”

He placed the receiver back and looked up at Kurapica. “Now, you’ll have to call your man and get him to come here to sign those documents. Anonymity and immunity if he provides the information that will get Nostrade prosecuted.”

Kurapica nodded slowly and slid his personal phone from his pocket. Kuroro hadn’t given him the number, per se, but he’d called, and Kurapica brought up his call history to find the unknown number. 

 

* * *

 

“You weren’t kidding when you said the FBI wanted to nail me to the wall,” Kuroro murmured by Kurapica’s ear. “Everyone was staring on my way in.”

“Worried?” Kurapica taunted.

“Not at all. I’m clean as a whistle. They can’t prove anything.”

“Word to the wise,” Kurapica warned, “shut up. Just write up all that you know about this case, sign it and get the hell out.”

Kuroro’s smile widened slowly as Kurapica berated him, and the blond could tell a lost cause when he saw one. He threw his hands up, opened the door to Netero’s office and waved him in.

The white-haired agent looked up at them and his eyebrows arched up, though the rest of his face remained impassive. Kurapica had no idea if this was a good thing or a bad thing.

“My, my, Mr. Kuroro Lucilfer. I can understand the need for anonymity now.” His sharp gaze turned to Kurapica. “You’re saying this man helped you into the Nostrade mansion? Are you looking at a B and E?”

“Nothing so unseemingly,” Kuroro answered for him. “I had an invitation and was allowed to bring someone. Kurapica here needed to get in to see the painting for himself, so he came with me, that is all.”

“The party this weekend?” Netero’s gaze was serious, though he was smiling and his tone was teasing. “You actually went on a date with this man? My, my.”

“It was strictly business,” Kurapica ground out, fighting off a blush through sheer force of will. “We only went to see the painting. I needed Kuroro to confirm it wasn’t his reproduction hanging in the office anymore.”

“Of course,” Netero said smoothly, and Kurapica was absolutely certain that the man didn’t believe a word of it. 

“You said to come to you to sign the anonymity agreement?” he asked, eager to change the topic.

“Ah, yes,” Netero said pleasantly, and picked up a sheaf of papers, handing them over to Kuroro before holding his mug up at Kurapica. “I could use a refill,” he told him, even though there was still a bit of coffee inside of it.

The blond could tell he was being dismissed for a few minutes. He took the mug from him and glanced at Kuroro, but the man was reading over the agreement, too focused to worry about being left alone with the head of the white collar division. He waved vaguely at Kurapica and sat across the desk from Netero.

Kurapica left the office and politely closed the door behind himself, then made his slow way down the few steps to the bullpen, where every set of eyes were on him. He held his head high and walked purposefully towards the kitchen area at the back. He hoped no one would ask him what he was doing with a known _alleged_ criminal, but Bisky cornered him by the coffee machine. 

“So, you and Lucilfer, huh,” she said conversationally.

Kurapica glanced at her, and chose to ignore the implication of her sentence by taking her words at face value. “He’s helping me on a case,” he told his usual partner, picking up the carafe to pour coffee into Netero’s mug. “He’s under an anonymity clause, so if anyone rats him out in the office, they’ll be putting the entire case in jeopardy. Hope they know that.”

“I’m sure Netero will fill them in,” she assured him, “but that wasn’t what I was asking.”

“Then ask what you mean and don’t dance around the question.” 

She was quiet a moment, waiting until Kurapica turned to face her to speak up again. “You’ve never mentioned him, and now I see him plastered to your side like a lover staking a claim. Can’t blame me for thinking there’s more to it than a professional relationship.”

“I can,” Kurapica growled, “and I will.”

His tone didn’t faze her in the slightest. She smiled up at him, studying his face for some time, before finally shrugging. “You still have eyeliner along your waterline,” she told him. “You might want to buy some decent makeup remover if you’re going to dress up again on the weekend.”

She turned on her heel with one last grin at him, then walked back to her desk. Kurapica couldn’t help rubbing at his eyes. He’d spent a long time trying to wash off the makeup with soap the previous day, but soap and eyes didn’t mix well and he’d given up on cleaning the black from his waterlines. 

With a sigh, he picked up the mug again and walked slowly back towards his superior’s office. To his surprise, when he stopped in front of the door, Netero was laughing. He gave two knocks, then opened the door. Both men inside were smiling and looked quite relaxed. Kurapica was dying to know what had been said while he’d been away, but he didn’t think they would answer him. 

“Your coffee,” he said, trying not to sound too put off.

“Ah, Kuruta!” Netero beamed at him. “You failed to mention how charming this young man here actually is. No wonder you’re so taken with him.”

“I am not,” Kurapica assured him, setting the mug down on the coaster by Netero’s computer screen.

“You call him by his first name,” the older agent pointed out. “You never call anyone by their first names even when asked to.”

Kurapica nearly pointed out that he called his friends by their given names, but he didn’t think that it would help him prove his case. Kuroro wasn’t his friend either. He opted to ignore any further comment about Kuroro. “Is everything filled and signed?”

“Going to start writing my deposition now,” Kuroro answered. “Perhaps you could help?”

“Just write everything that happened as it happened,” Kurapica said with a shrug.

“Everything?” Kuroro asked, and his teasing tone made Netero’s eyebrows arch up again. 

Kurapica pursed his lips. “I’m remembering why I hate you.”

“Oh?” Kuroro’s tone was teasing and made Kurapica want to strangle him. “Does that mean I had managed to make you forget your dislike of me? Wish I’d known earlier; I would have taken advantage.”

“If anyone needs me,” Kurapica said, proud of how level his voice sounded, “I’ll be at my desk, filing reports.”

Netero’s eyes were sparkling with amusement and Kuroro was openly grinning. Kurapica turned his back on both and stomped back to his desk. He wrote out everything he had on this case and had managed to calm down quite a bit by the time Kuroro wandered down into the bullpen. The blond ignored him, hoping he would just go on his way and let him be, but Kuroro stopped in front of his desk.

“How would you like decent coffee?” he asked, leaning casually against the agent’s desk. 

“I’m working,” Kurapica ground out.

“Decent coffee?” Netero called out, appearing in his office door. “Bring some back for me and you can have an hour.”

Kurapica sighed, leaning back in his chair. “It’s like the universe is conspiring to make me spend time with you,” he complained.

“Of course not, I just asked him for that favour before I left,” Kuroro admitted without a single ounce of shame.

Kurapica glared at him the entire time it took to grab his jacket from the back of his chair and put it on.

 

* * *

 

“It’s been authenticated,” Melody told him over the phone, about two weeks after his last meeting with the art dealer. Two wonderful, peaceful, _boring_ weeks. “Nostrade really had the original.”

“According to the same experts who couldn’t agree the last time?” Kurapica couldn’t stop himself from asking. He was in a bad mood.

“Yes, including Mr. Lucilfer,” the petite woman said, proving that she could turn the blade in a gaping wound just as well as any crook. 

“So you finally asked him for his number?” he asked. “No more need for me to run your errands?”

“Oh, he just showed up at the Art Institute to paint one of our Monets.”

“Yeah, I bet he did,” Kurapica grumbled. “He’d better be more careful who he sells that forgery to. And to keep my friends out of his shady dealings.”

“If you’re so worried about him, you could just call him,” Melody said, a little reproachfully. “You do have his number, don’t you?”

Kurapica would be damned to hell a million times over before he would ever make that call. “I erased it,” he lied. “And I’m not worried.”

“Mhm,” Melody hummed teasingly. “Then maybe I should tell him you really would not like his present for you and would rather never speak to him again.”

“You don’t have his number,” Kurapica reminded her.

“Oh, but I do now, or will in a second,” she said cryptically. Then, “Mr. Lucilfer, good to see you again! I’d like your number, if you don’t mind? Kurapica says he won’t go talk to you the next time I need your expertise.”

Kurapica was about to call her bluff, when an unmistakable smooth voice came, a little muted and distorted by the distance between phone and speaker. “But of course, Ms. Senritsu, let me get you my card.”

Kurapica hung up, resisting the urge to throw his phone as it would serve no purpose and would only cost him money he didn’t exactly have. It wasn’t that he was angry with Kuroro for being a smooth, sweet-talking asshole, because he’d known that from the start, and it wasn’t like he was mad because Kuroro hadn’t even acknowledged his existence in weeks, either. And yet…. 

And yet.

Realization dawned, and Kurapica stared at the phone he was still clutching in one hand with a horrified expression. He carefully set his phone down next to him on the old couch and tried not to panic.

 

* * *

 

Kuroro had ended up calling him on Thursday, but Kurapica had ignored the first few calls, then had finally blocked his number when Kuroro just would not stop calling. It wasn’t that he was snubbing him though, nothing so mundane. No, Kurapica was as full of spite as the next agent, but spite wasn’t what had him refuse to take Kuroro’s calls.

No, Kurapica was _terrified_.

He had always had goals, aspirations, things that he strove to accomplish and put his everything into. This wasn’t one of them. This… this _thing_ that was happening to him, it wasn’t part of his life goals, and it certainly was _not_ in any of his professional plans.

“Make a plan, then work the plan,” he muttered to himself, over and over through that entire Friday spent filing paperwork. One thing no one told you about law enforcement in media or school was just how much typing and writing you had to do. He frowned at his laptop, typing furiously, willfully ignoring his fellow agents giving him a wide berth or whispering together as they glanced his way. Even Bisky got a hard stare when she tried to approach him.

He went home with a box of frozen pizza to eat for dinner because he couldn’t be bothered to cook. He’d glared at the grocery clerk too. He parked down the street because he was home late due to his detour by the grocery store, and was surprised to find a familiar car double-parked in front of his house. Surprised that it was there, not that the unlawful man had double-parked. 

He stalked by, not acknowledging Kuroro as the man got out of his car to greet him. He kept ignoring him as he climbed the few steps to his front door and jammed his key into the lock.

“You seem irritated,” Kuroro commented mildly.

Kurapica scowled at the door handle and wrenched the door open. “I’m not irritated,” he growled.

“The words make no sense with your tone, you know?”

“I’m not,” Kurapica insisted, stepping inside and turning to make sure Kuroro wouldn’t follow him in. “I’m not irritated, Kuroro, I just want to be alone for now. It’s been a long week and I’d like to have this weekend to myself. Didn’t Melody talk to you?”

“Only to ask for my number,” Kuroro said, leaning against the balustrade, as if to signal his intentions not to push inside where Kurapica clearly didn’t want him.

The blond kind of wanted to hate him for this too. Wasn’t the guy a thief? He’d probably come in uninvited whenever he wanted and the little display was clearly calculated on Kuroro’s part just to put Kurapica at ease around him.

Then again, Kurapica owned nothing that could ever interest a man used to luxury cars and million dollar paintings. He sighed.

“Could I at least give you something before I go?” Kuroro asked, raising a hand between them. 

A gift paper bag hung from his fingers, Florodora written in stylized letters on the front, with tissue paper peering out the top and ribbons decorating the handles. Kurapica stared at the bag, then slid his eyes up to meet Kuroro’s annoyingly hopeful gaze.

“I thought the blue dress looked nice,” Kuroro said, “but nothing you’d wear daily, and maybe you’d like something a little more flowy and comfortable for the weekends. Paku said this was the best boutique for cute dresses that were less upscale soirées and more Sundays at the park with a good book.”

Kurapica’s hand hesitantly moved up, paused, and he realized that he couldn’t find anything to say. That this man, this _criminal_ could know him so well already, know him better than his friends did, was unsettling to say the least, but also flattering. His eyes went from Kuroro’s face, to the bag, then back, twice, and he finally accepted the gift.

He really shouldn’t do this. He really shouldn’t let this man have any more of an impact on his life. It was bad enough that he’d had to work with him for two weeks, had to endure his teasing, had to grit his teeth through his coworkers jeers and comments… Worst of it all had been the revelation he’d developed some stupid infatuation with an _alleged_ thief, something that threw a wedge in all of his goals and life plans, all over a silly kiss that wasn’t supposed to mean anything at all. He wasn’t that easy and he would not let this man wreck his life more than he already had, he wouldn’t! And yet….

And yet.

“I’ll let you in to have cheap pizza with me if you agree to move your car.”

Kuroro’s smile was a dazzling thing. 

Kurapica didn’t want to feel his heart constrict, then start beating faster in his chest. He didn’t want to feel the way his cheeks heated up, or the lightheadedness that this smile gave him. He didn’t want to feel these things, yet he felt them all the same.

He pointed an accusing finger at Kuroro’s chest and frowned at him, though his lips kept trying to lift at the corners in a bashful smile he would not allow. “And park it legally!”

 

* * *

  **The End**

* * *

 

 

 

**In Loving Memory of Renée Aline Goodman**

author, poet, mentor, confident and beloved family  
who was looking forward to reading this but never got to as she passed away right after i finished it, before i'd had time to send it to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _and so there we go, this fic is complete and finished. i can now go back to battlefield. thank you everyone who sent me love and support in these very hard times, as well as all of you who waited patiently as i worked through my grief to find the focus to start writing again. go and tell your loved ones how much you care for them. you never know when something will take them away._


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